


Five Times Draco Went to Potions

by Ralph_E_Silvering



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Non-Epilogue Complient, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralph_E_Silvering/pseuds/Ralph_E_Silvering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts Year Eight. Five times Draco goes to Potions and One time he does not. Features Draco/Harry, a very observant Hermione, and Draco's plans to take over the known world, starting with Hogwarts. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Draco Went to Potions

Five Times Draco Went to Potions  
And One Time He Didn’t

Disclaimer: I have shamelessly pulled this title from Rainbow Rowell’s Fangirl, which I am re-reading again and which I absolutely adore. So all credit to her, and all the wonderful, perfect nods to Harry/Draco in that book. This story takes place during Year 8 and ignores the epilogue. I own nothing from Harry Potter as per usual. 

&……&…….&…….&…….&…….&

Potions was the first class of the year. Of the New Year. The year after Voldemort. The year that Draco and the rest of the Malfoys were given a second chance, and the school had been rebuilt, and the dead had been mourned and buried.

And Draco was late.

It was typical really. It seemed that no matter what Draco did, or how hard he tried, reality continued to hate him. It was like karma had seen fit to punish him to the sins of all Malfoys, past and present.

He had heard Granger talking about karma yesterday as they’d all walked up to the castle, and it seemed to Draco that if there was some sort of force that brought balance to the world, then it was definitely out to get him. 

Draco had woken up, stood in Nott’s cold porridge, and reached out an automatic hand to Crabbe’s bed to steady himself. 

Only Crabbe was dead, and thus his bed was no longer present any more than he was. 

So Draco had ended up on the floor, Nott had laughed himself sick, and Draco had had cold porridge all over his good slippers, and a trembling in his hands that he could do nothing about.

The day had only gone downhill from there. Draco had avoided the Welcoming Feast last night, knowing that no matter what McGonagall said about forgiveness and second chances, that he would not be welcomed. He’d gone to bed hungry and known that he would have to brave the Great Hall this morning if he didn’t want to pass out sometime during the day. He had a rather delicate constitution, is mother always said, and missing meals never ended well.

But the House Elves had “misplaced” all of his belongings sometime in the night and he’d had to transfigure his pajamas into something resembling the school uniform before he could do anything else. He’d sent an owl off to the Headmistress – his own had yet to be replaced after the Carrows had used her for target practice last year – complaining about this treatment at the hands of those now paid (per the instructions of Granger. The girl was a complete menace) to serve the school, and by that time he had been abominably late to breakfast, but had decided to brazen it out all the same. 

“Malfoy the boy-toy, the Dark Lord’s little……….minion,” Peeves sang raucously as Draco attempted to walk up from the dungeons.

A posse of second-year Hufflepuff girls began sniggering behind their hands, and Zacharias Smith shot a trip jinx at him just as he reached the doors to the Great Hall. In full view of staff and students alike, Draco Malfoy fell on his face with a loud ‘Whomp!’

Scattered laughter broke out, and as McGonagall got to her feet, face like thunder, Draco had picked himself up and walked back out with as much dignity as he could muster, sans his breakfast. He could feel Potter’s gaze on his back; he’d seen him sitting at the edge of the Gryffindor table, practically on top of the Weaslette and still surrounded as always by Weasley and Granger.

Draco barely resisted the urge to give him the finger.

Barely.

By the time the rest of the class trooped into Professor Slughorn’s dungeon lair, Draco was seated in the back with a borrowed book and cauldron, and studiously avoiding all eyes.

Sniggers again broke out, Draco raised his head to glare daggers at his classmates, and then Blaise Zabini hauled himself into the seat next to Draco, white teeth gleaming as he sent a distinctly unfriendly glance around the room.

“Malfoy.” He nodded.

“Zabini.”

Draco returned to his book as the rest of the class eventually found their seats and only looked up again when a loud throat-clearing noise issued from his left. Draco’s eyes took in scruffy trainers before moving up to worn jeans that hung indecently low, under an opened school robe, and finally up into the untidy hair, green eyes, and face of Harry Potter.

“Yes, Potter?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. Then he paused. “Why are you all sweaty?”

Potter looked slightly abashed but then he glared at Draco fiercely. 

“If you must know, Malfoy, Hermione was afraid you’d waste away, and made me run back and get you a damn apple.” He slammed the offending fruit on the table before Draco, and next to it placed a steaming cup of coffee with slightly more delicacy. “And this,” he mumbled.

Draco looked at it as though it were poison, and then back up at Potter, incredulous. “If you think that I’m going to-“ 

But before he could finish whatever ill-advised statement he was about to utter Slughorn bustled into the room with a “Hello, hello!” and Potter hastily took the seat next to Granger behind Draco. As Slughorn welcomed them to another year of Potions, Draco shifted slightly in his seat to look behind him at two-thirds of the Dream Team. Potter stared back at him with his usual amount of disdain, which was comforting, but Granger was looking at him with something disturbingly like concern in her eyes.

Draco shuddered and narrowed his eyes at the interfering busybody. He could feel eyes on him, discreetly watching his reaction from every corner. He could feel Blaise shaking with suppressed laughter, probably at Draco sinking so low that he was now in need of help from a………Granger. In his supercilious tone he said: “Granger, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but-“

“She’s obviously decided you’re her new House Elf project,” Potter interrupted. “I wouldn’t get all smug about it.”

“Git.”

“Prat.”

“Scarhead.”

“Tosser.”

Draco felt slightly better about things. Slightly. Then Potter had to go and ruin it by adding, “If you don’t start eating properly, Hermione will probably seat herself next to you at the Slytherin table and lecture you until you start taking better care of yourself. I’d at least drink that coffee.” He sounded as though he were trying to commiserate with Draco. Which was unheard of. And not at all on. 

Draco stared back at the bushy-haired menace, aghast. “It was two meals!” His hands grasped the cup of coffee. “Two!” he repeated, slightly hysterically. “What is wrong with you people?!”

“A very valid question, Mr. Malfoy,” boomed Slughorn’s voice, from directly above. Draco jumped and spilled some of his coffee. “And one you can answer after class.” He paused on his way back up to the front of the room, massive girth swirling around him, unused to such a rapid stopping maneuver. “Although I suspect that your image is now completely ruined,” he said, in such a serious tone that Pansy Parkinson released a sound of amusement not appropriate in polite company before she could stop herself.

He heard Potter’s own snort of amusement behind him.

Draco glared at all and sundry. Some friends he had. And now he was a pity case to the likes of Granger and Scarhead. Things couldn’t get any worse.

Life, it seemed, existed just to prove Draco wrong.

“In the interest of interhouse cooperation, as per Headmistress McGonagall’s explicit wishes, I have assigned you someone from another House who will be your Potions partner for the rest of the term. When I call your name decide where you will sit with your new partner. That will be your assigned seat from now on.”

To Draco’s everlasting chagrin but no real surprise given the way that this day was going, he was paired with Potter. Without even asking, Draco refused to budge until, with a sigh, the specky-eyed git came forwards and took Blaise’s previous seat.

“I hate you,” Draco informed the Boy Who Lived helpfully.

“You’re a real piece of work, Malfoy,” Potter said, wonderingly. 

“You’re an imbecile, Potter, and a hopeless case especially when it comes to Potions. I don’t know what I did in life to deserve to be saddled with your incompetence for the entire term.”

“Er, let me think about this for a second, Malfoy,” Potter said, sarcastically. “Maybe supported Voldemort.” He paused and Draco could feel those eyes boring a whole in the side of his head. “Besides,” he said, after a minute, “I think you’re just scared.”

“Of what, exactly,” Draco snapped. “You?” he snorted. “You wish.”

“Of everything that’s changing,” Potter said, softer now.

Draco couldn’t stop the quick flinch, and he knew Potter saw it. After a moment when Potter didn’t say anything else, Draco made his face Malfoy-smooth and turned to face him. “Malfoys don’t mind change,” Draco informed him imperiously. “We’re usually the ones who bring it about.” But even to himself he didn’t sound that assertive. 

Potter looked supremely unconvinced.

“Are you scared, Malfoy?” Potter challenged then, green eyes blazing as he stared straight into Draco’s. Being the focus of the gaze was something Draco was used to, but it was never something that lost its thrill.

Draco’s eyes widened as he recognized his own words to the Chosen One from a lifetime ago. He was not about to be outdone by a skinny little twerp like Potter. He jerked his rather pointy chin up and fixed the miscreant who just happened to defeat the Dark Lord with his most imperious stare.

“You wish, Potter.”

&……&……&……&……&……&

Draco Malfoy had a love of rain.

Well, that and snow and hail and strong wind. But mostly rain. And warm September rains were the best. After a bone dry, terribly hot weekend, Monday morning saw the sky fill with billowing, dark grey clouds, and when the first clap of thunder echoed in the Scottish Highlands, Draco gave up all thoughts of eating in the Great Hall. He stopped by long enough to grab a cup of the blackest coffee he could find, gulped it down greedily, and then refilled the cup to take it outside.

Sitting in a window arch along the path to the Forbidden Forest, Draco watched with absolute delight as sheets of silver rain poured down from the Heavens, soaking the dry, brown grass below. Everything was fresh and clean and new. Even the Quidditch players practicing didn’t bring about the same annoyance that they had since McGonagall had informed the school that 8 Year students were ineligible to participate.

It had been the only time that Draco and Potter had been in agreement about something as they’d both shouted at the Headmistress, and earned themselves a detention scrubbing out cauldrons one wekkend. 

Draco breathed deeply, sipping his hot coffee, and didn’t even realized that he was smiling like a loon, until a small, first-year girl poked him in the knee and informed him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t stop smiling his face would freeze like then. “And then where will you be?” she asked.

The girl was a Hufflepuff. Margaret Creevey, she informed him. And although Draco winced at the name, she ignored that and told him he was about to be late for Potions.

Draco was convinced the Hufflepuffs were involved in a conspiracy to drive him slowly mad. And that Potter was their ringleader.

“Why do you smell like wet grass, Malfoy?” Potter asked, sniffing cautiously as Draco sat down next to him in Potions. He leaned closed to Draco and took a deep breath. His eyebrows rose. “And lemons.”

They would be making something called the Wishing Pool Potion today. Draco carefully propped up his brand new Potions book, and fixed Goyle with an imperious stare to inform him that he was to collect two of everything. Then he fixed his gaze on Pansy to make sure that she remembered their conversation in the Common Room the other night.

“In no uncertain terms are you to let your grades slip like last year, Pansy. Especially not because you’re making moon-eyes at the Weasel.”

The surrounding Slytherins had grown quiet. Pansy had been undisputed Queen last year, but everyone knew where that had led them. And now Draco stood before her as though last year had never happened, and he was still king.

Pansy rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. Her eyes sparked with pleasure. There was nothing a Slytherin liked more than a power play. “And what, exactly, are you going to do if I just ignore you like usual, Draco? Your daddy’s out of power. You have no say here, anymore.”

“What am I going to do?” Draco made a show of glancing around at all the other watching Slytherins. “Why, I’m not going to do anything, Pansy. But if you disgrace Slytherin House……..” he paused delicately, “any more than you already have that is, we would have no reason to stand with you anymore. You will be alone. You are only still accepted in this school because these people,” Draco waved around him, “still have your back. Without us, do you really think the rest of the school won’t devour you?”

Pansy’s eyes were growing wide, and Draco could see from the faces around him that most were on his side in the matter. Besides, word had gotten around about Potter and Granger, and what had happened on the first day of Potions.  
People were eyeing Draco with a bit more wariness and a bit less antagonism than previously. Draco was too much his mother’s son not to use an opportunity such as this when it presented itself.

He decided to drive his point home. 

“You stood before this entire school and demanded that we hand Potter over to the Dark Lord. The rest of the school stood against you. Now the Dark Lord has lost and Potter has won. You have no friends here, Pansy. Except us.”

He narrowed his eyes at her imperiously. “Don’t betray us too.”

And just like that, Draco Malfoy had taken back Slytherin House.

And now here was Potter telling him that he smelled like wet grass, sticking his self-righteous arse where it wasn’t wanted. As usual. 

“Congratulations, Potter,” Draco informed him, “you have successfully moved up the evolutionary chain and become a bloodhound.” He smirked, “Shall I make you my bitch?”

To his everlasting surprise, a snort came from behind them, but when he turned to look, Goyle was staring blankly at the cauldron he was supposed to be stirring and Granger was diligently slicing roots. Draco glared at her suspiciously and was positive he saw her lips twitch.

Granger was obviously in on the whole thing as well. 

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” Potter snapped.

“Bite me, Potter. You started it.”

“What are you, like three? I asked you a perfectly reasonable question, and as per bloody usual you managed-“

“You implied that I smell, which I most assuredly do not!”

“That’s debatable.”

“The only thing I’m debating is whether to hex you into a goldfish now, or later when you’re not expecting it, Potter.”  
Potter’s green eyes sparked as he invaded Draco’s personal space until the two of them were almost nose to nose. “You don’t have the stones.”

Draco leaned even closer and bestowed him with the Malfoy glare, patented since 1257, for good measure. “Oh I have the stones,” he informed the twit-who-was-going-to-die-very-soon. “I have tons of stones.”

Potter’s warm breath ghosted across his lips. “Well, why don’t you take your stones and cut the shrivelfig.”

Draco smirked. “I always knew you were too incompetent to even manage cutting up ingredients for Potions.”

The two of them continued bickering until the Potion was complete, and didn’t even pause in their snipes to one another in order to check its consistency and color before following Slughorn’s directive to drink a tablespoon. They only realized something was wrong when, with a rather sickening tug around their navels, they found the Potions room dissolving around them.

Later, after the recriminations, a minor scuffle that ended with Draco sporting a black eye and Potter with a bite mark on his arm, as well as the disheartening realization that they’d both left their wands back on the table in the Potions classroom, they realized that it was raining. And that they were now thoroughly drenched. 

Also, it was absolutely freezing out.

Draco, his teeth chattering as icy rain continued to fall from the sky, punched Potter in the arm and directed his attention to a line of jagged black cliffs on the horizon. 

“Caves,” Potter agreed, and the two of them set off as rapidly as they could over the uneven, crater pitted ground and barren landscape towards the prospect of shelter. They didn’t talk to each other anymore. Even as they sat almost shoulder to shoulder in a shallow cave that definitely didn’t have any wildlife in it, staring out at the ice-rain and hoping that someone had been able to tell where they had disappeared off to, they didn’t say anything. 

Eventually they curled up, facing away from one another, and tried to go to sleep, teeth chattering and bodies shaking all the while.

“This is stupid, Malfoy,” Potter said after it became obvious that neither of them were going to fall asleep. “We’re going to freeze to death like this.”

Draco sighed. “I think I can attempt a wandless warming spell,” he offered, too cold to even mock Potter about his weakness. “Since you’re obviously useless.” Or maybe not.

Potter growled in aggravation, and shoved himself along the ground until his back touched Draco’s. Draco knew that the green-eyed menace felt his flinch. Potter advised him to be a man, wiggled a bit to get comfortable, and then – like the low-bred tosspot that he was – promptly fell asleep.

Draco decided to lie on his back, his right side still touching Potter’s back, attempted a wandless warming spell which worked for a good ten minutes, and then just resigned himself to leeching off of Potter’s heat. As his eyes drifted close he felt Potter twist around in his sleep until he was pressed entirely against Draco, face buried into Draco’s chest and warmth pouring out of him. Draco sighed gently and fell into sleep.

Draco Malfoy woke to the sound of rain, with Harry Potter in his arms. Potter was warm, his face against Draco’s shoulder with his soft, even breathing whispering over Draco’s neck, causing him to shiver, and his spikey hair tickling Draco’s chin. His hands were fisted into Draco’s shirt, and their legs were entwined so thoroughly that Draco could feel every inch of Potter’s body pressed against his. He was deliciously warm Draco realized with no little alarm that his own hand was resting possessively on Potter’s back, and that he was uncomfortably hard.

With a sudden rush of panic he jerked away from the other boy, scrambling for space, and noticed Hermione Granger sitting not 15 feet away from them, watching him with a small smile on her face. “Good morning, Malfoy,” she said, equably. Potter stirred at the loss of Draco’s warmth and Granger’s voice.

“’Lo ‘Mione,” Potter mumbled around a yawn, attempting to sit up and apparently unsurprised to see her.

Granger smiled at her friend. “McGonagall almost had a heart attack, and it was all I could do to convince her to let me travel here for you guys alone. We had to get an international portkey from the Ministry.”

She noticed Draco’s confused look. “I placed a homing spell on Harry years ago. If I’m within twenty miles of his location I can Apparate directly to his side. Of course, it did take quite a bit of work to reverse engineer your attempt at a Wishing Pool Potion. Really, Harry, what were you thinking? Didn’t you notice that it was purple and not gold?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Apparently not, Hermione,” he said, dutifully.

“It seemed that Goyle handed you Mongolian water beetles instead of Malaysian tree beetles and that caused an element of fluidity in the potion which translated into movement instead of simple viewing.”

“That’s fascinating, Hermione,” Potter groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Draco made sure he was not watching Potter stretch out the kinks in his back. His hair was even more unruly than usual. So he did make an effort with it every other day. Interesting. “Really?” he asked Granger. “And the moonstone compounded the effect, let me guess, instead of stabilizing it like what should have happened.”

Her smile got even wider and she nodded at him, bushy hair bouncing about her pink face. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“So fascinating that I think I’m going to kill Goyle when I get home,” Draco got out, through gritted teeth. He almost jumped out of his skin when Potter reached over and patted him companionably on the arm.

&……&……&……&……&……&

The first week of November was the hottest period Hogwarts had seen in three hundred years. At least according to the Headmasters of Hogwarts Past.

Snape’s portrait told Draco that the others were a bunch of “interfering, addle-pated nincompoops” and that Draco should feel free to ignore them as thoroughly as he, Severus, did.

Draco had successfully made Margaret Creevey his minion, and she had managed to slip some itching powder into every single pair of Zacharias Smith’s underwear. Now, watching that Hufflepuff tosser writhe in agony while refusing to admit that anything was wrong, made Draco smile. He took a sip of scalding black coffee. Even though it was hot as Hades he was not going to let that interfere with his caffeine intact. Sweet, sweet caffeine. How he had ever gotten through a day without it was a mystery of the universe.

Granger had unwittingly created a monster. He decided to practice a slightly maniacal laugh and felt success when Justin Finch-Fletchley gave him a look of alarm.

It was so hot that Draco had thought about skipping Potions because he had no desire to spend two hours slaving away over bubbling cauldrons on the hottest day of the year. 

“Now I know you’re just pulling my leg, Potter,” Draco snapped. “There’s no way that you brewed a Polyjuice Potion ever let alone in your second year.” He gave their potion a rather violent stir and all but threw in the ground up Quail’s eggs. “There’s absolutely no way you understood the underlying principles of mass distribution to get the proportions right for such a potion.”

“What the hell are you going on about, Malfoy?” Potter asked, wearily, wiping sweat away from his brow and making his unruly hair stick up even more. 

“You look like a hedgehog,” Draco said, momentarily distracted. Potter did have nice cheekbones. Heroic ones even.

“But a good-looking hedgehog,” Weasley called out loyally from the other side of the room, where he was attempting to avoid Pansy’s rather rapacious gaze. That girl was sick. There was no other word for someone who fancied a Weasley.

Speaking of which. 

“Where’s the Weaslette, Potter?” Draco queried. “Haven’t seen her all but molesting you in the hallways lately.”

Potter turned red and avoided Draco’s eyes, which Draco took to mean that the Weaslette had wizened up and dumped the ignorant tit. He ignored the little jump in his stomach at the thought. Or maybe Potter was just bashful and didn’t like to openly boast about his conquests, unlike the average Slytherin.

Spoilsports.

“Jealous, Malfoy?” Granger asked. She didn’t look up, but a smile hovered about her lips.

Draco gave her a cool look. “And how’s your love-life going, Granger? The red-lummox that couldn’t take a hint has asked you out, has he?”

They both looked over at Weasley, who was watching Pansy’s cleavage as she bent over their cauldron. 

“Your friend is a slut, Malfoy,” Granger muttered.

“There’s no denying that,” Draco informed her cheerfully, “but she’s our slut, so if you make fun of her I will gladly rearrange your face.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, Malfoy,” Potter said.

“Drop dead, Potter.”

Potter grinned and his green eyes sparkled. Draco hated the bastard. “I haven’t died yet, Malfoy, in spite of your good wishes these past 8 years.”

“There’s always next year,” Draco muttered. “My hope springs eternal.”

Daphne Greengrass, who had been rather aloof from the rest of the Slytherins the past few months, shook her head in exasperation. “You two do realized that you’re grown-ups now, right?” she asked.

Granger laughed. “Don’t even bother, Daphne. They’ll never learn.” 

Daphne’s eyes widened to be so informally addressed by one-third of the Dream Team, and then she smiled, somewhat hesitantly, but sincerely, at the other girl.

Draco reached over and poked Granger. “Stop corrupting my Slytherins,” he told her sternly.

“It anyone’s corrupting them it’s you, Malfoy,” Potter said, but he was smiling as though this was something good and not some sort of horrible, nefarious plot of Draco’s for World Domination.

Draco turned back to their cauldron, already framing an insult in Potter’s direction, but the words died unsaid on his tongue. Potter was bent industriously over their lab table, dicing as accurately as he knew how. But he had removed his school robes in the oppressive heat and his black shirt rode up his back, exposing a patch of pale skin just above a pair of indecently tight trousers. 

As Draco watched a bead of sweat trickled down his back, down, down……and down.

He swallowed, attempted to tear his eyes away, and felt his own clothes sticking wetly to him. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering what Potter’s skin tasted like, wondering if the other boy would gasp or moan when Draco swiped his tongue over Potter’s throat, following that bead of sweat down over his chest, down over his stomach, hard from playing Quidditch all these years and defeating Evil in his spare time, and down, down, down until-“

“Malfoy.” Potter was waving a hand in front of his face. 

Draco blinked at him owlishly, desperately attempting to quell the urge to grab Potter’s hand a suck a finger into his mouth just to see what he would do.

“You looked like you were on another planet. A very nice planet.”

Potter was looking at him with a knowing glint in his green eyes. Emerald green eyes. Eyes that were so fucking green. Draco scowled.

“Potter, you can just take whatever pipe you’re smoking and-“

There was an ominous noise from behind them. Draco spun around, saw Goyle’s expression of alarm as he quickly backed away from the rapidly expanding cauldron, and then the Draco's minion dived right on top of Granger, bearing her down to the ground and under the nearest table mere seconds before the defective potion exploded.

As if in sympathy, Draco’s and Potter’s own neglected cauldron exploded as well. They hit the ground seconds before it smacked them in the face with a tidal wave of boiling hot liquid.

This explosion did such a good job that a small crater was blown into the ceiling. Snape would have been extremely irate and was undoubtedly rolling in his grave; the anal bastard. Draco really did miss him.

“This is all your fault!” Draco shouted at Potter over the sounds of yelling, erratic spells, and a rain of stone from up above them. 

Potter opened his mouth to argue back, but Granger shoved Goyle off her just then.

“For goodness sake,” she snapped, waved her wand, and cast a full stasis charm on ever inanimate thing in the dungeon room.

There was silence for a moment, and then she climbed out from under the table, dragging Draco, Goyle and Potter along with her. Slughorn mopped his brow weakly and leaned against his desk.

“Yes, yes, very good Miss Granger. Most ingenious.” He looked with vague dismay at the chaos around him. “Snape would have been most upset.” Millicent Bulstrode, whom Draco had stationed on, cozying-up-to-Slughorn duty, was conscientiously stamping out the part of Slughorn's robes that was still on fire.

“Sir,” Draco said loudly, raising his hand. “I’d like to register a complaint that if Potter hadn’t been distracting everyone around him none of this would have happened.”

Potter’s stunned fish impression was rather funny.

"Malfoy, you bastard!" Potter shoved him. Draco shoved him back. And McGonagall opened the door to the Potions classroom just as they tumbled into the faintly smoking potion still trying to punch each other in the face. She stared at them with an expression of deep despair.

And didn’t even bother to give them detention. 

Weasley had barreled over as soon as his small brain processed what was happening, and hovered proprietorially over Hermione, who looked at him with such fondness that Draco almost gagged. “Just ask her out already, Weasley!” he snapped, as the Weasel looked at Draco like Draco was attempting to seduce that complete menace of a woman. Or worse, that Goyle was.

As they filed out of the room, still detention free, Draco muttered, “Well, that was all very exciting,” not expecting a response.

To Draco’s complete astonishment Potter turned back and smiled at him, white teeth in a tanned face, and eyes that were as green as emeralds. 

&……&…….&……..&…….&…….&

“Today we will be attempting to make Amortentia,” Professor Slughorn intoned, a week before Christmas, after the news that Granger and Weasley were finally an item had had a chance to die down. Draco’s role in the whole affair had become the stuff of legend, and he now had his own posse of pre-pubescent girls of all Houses following him around in the hope that he would pair them up as well.

Draco used them to crush the souls and spirits of his enemies – in this case, Zacharias Smith and, as of Thanksgiving and a minor mishap with a vanishing toilet, Argus Filch.

“In honor of the holidays, and this season of goodwill, you will all brew a cauldron and write down what you smell in the fumes. Your assignment for Christmas break will be to find what makes you truly happy, and incorporate it into your lives.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Even Slytherins were getting sappy at this time of year.

He darted a glance at Potter out of the corner of his eye, noticing his full lips. Potter was biting the again. He was always doing that, Draco realized. Draco had been noticing what Potter was always doing more and more lately.

And realizing, to his growing horror and consternation, that he had always been noticing what Potter was doing. He just hadn’t been consciously aware of it. But he was now. It made him realize that he desperately needed to sort out his priorities. 

Potter shifted in his seat, always restless, and Draco breathed in his scent of something musky and something that reminded him of a fresh breeze on a day that was perfect for Quidditch. Draco attempted to hold his breath to avoid the smell but stopped when Neville Longbottom, partnered with Blaise Zabini to Draco’s left, gave him a strange look.

Draco gave Longbottom a look that told him that, after Potter, he was Draco’s least favorite person in the world. Longbottom just shrugged and went back to examining the directions for Amortentia, leaving Draco to have a brief anxiety attack that he was losing his touch.

“Alright, get to work,” Slughorn said, and the class came alive with excitement as the pairs attempted to divide up the work for the potion.

Potter turned and his lips quirked a bit as he studied Draco. Draco attempted to look severe, but Potter’s leg was all but brushing his under the table and Draco felt like his stomach had dropped out from under him, when Potter’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Really, he was an ignorant pleb.

“Yes, Potter?”

But it came out more of a hoarse whisper and Draco mentally deducted 10 points from Slytherin for his utter failure to uphold House pride.

“How on earth did you talk McGonagall into appointing you a second Head Boy?”

Draco drummed his fingers on the tabletop, trying to maintain his composure and not lose all dignity by informing Potter that the way he licked his lips was obscene. And that Draco wanted to nibble them.

Draco was so far gone watching the slow movement of that tongue around Potter’s full lips that he actually answered with the truth. “By telling her that she wanted Hermione Granger as a second Head Girl. Really, Hortense Bigglesworth is an utter failure as an authoritarian. And then I told her that if she wanted the cooperation of the Slytherins she would need me as a Head Boy.”

Now Potter was craning his neck to see if the Potions storage room was slightly less empty after the first stampede was over. The muscles in his neck were straining. Draco could see his pulse point beating steadily and had to resist the utterly nonsensical urge to bite Potter in exactly that spot like he was some sort of vampire.

“The machinations of Slytherin House will never cease to amaze me,” Potter said now.

Draco, eyes still roaming over Potters visage with abandon now that the other was looking away, said, “I am a magnificent bastard, Potter, and don’t you ever forget it.”

Potter turned back to him then, green eyes sparkling with mirth. “I won’t, Malfoy,” he promised mock solemnly, and then he grinned at Draco, all crinkled eyes and strong hands, with his magic running over him like water because he was genuinely happy, and it all hit Draco with the force of a punch to the gut. Draco forgot how to breathe, until Potter moved away to collect their ingredients. 

He had a terrible premonition that he knew what Amortentia would smell like to him. And he hated Harry Potter. Hate, hate, hate. The Dark Lord hadn’t even known such hate.

He stabbed viciously into a Shrivelfig with his quill to assuage his feelings, and was still doing this when Potter got back.

“Er-“ the Chosen One said, looking uncertain whether he should ask Draco what was the matter, or if he should just play on the side of caution and make a run for it while he still had a chance. Draco approved of this fear in his enemies.

“Sit down Potter,” he told the hovering boy. “You’re making the place untidy.”

“Sometimes I worry about you, Malfoy,” Potter admitted, setting out the ingredients. He looked askance at the silver knife Draco was twirling about his fingers.

“I have no idea why that is, Potter,” Draco told him truthfully. “I am the picture of sanity.” No one needed to know about those dreams he was having. Dark, dirty dreams filled with pale fingers in black, sooty hair and aching gasps against swollen lips stolen with the risk of discovery around every corner.

Potter snorted. “You’re an anemic little runt,” Potter muttered, but Draco graciously decided to ignore him in the interests of world peace.

They chopped and mixed and consulted the book all in a – if Draco had ever thought to use this word in conjunction with Potter – companionable silence. If, occasionally, their hands brushed and Draco all but flinched, he hoped he managed to conceal his reaction from the – usually – unobservant twit beside him.

There was a minor mishap from Longbottom and Blaise that only smoked threateningly for several minutes, thank Merlin, but caused no other catastrophe.

All too soon Granger was breathing in her cauldron excitedly, and jotting down her results, brusquely ordering Goyle around as though he was her minion and not Draco’s. Theodore Nott, who, surprisingly, had become Draco’s point man in his ongoing quest to find out what exactly the Ravenclaws did up in their windy tower, was staring at his potion with an expression of absolute shock on his face.

Potter bent over their cauldron and took a tentative sniff.

They had abandoned their robes for the day. Even though it was freezing in the corridors, the Potions room was still quite warm. Slughorn had, inanely, even hung mistletoe around the damn place. Luckily it wasn’t the magical kind. 

Draco pretended that he wasn’t looking at the curve of Potter’s arse in his tight-hugging jeans. 

“I smell old-parchment and mince pies and sandalwood and……something citrusy-“

For some reason he turned red at this announcement, ducked his head, and began scribbling frantically, the scratching of his quill the only sound between the for a moment.

“If it’s something sordid about the Weaslette,” Draco told him, firmly, “keep it to yourself.”

Cautiously he inched towards the potion, making sure to keep his flawless hair away from the fumes. He took the barest of whiffs, already knowing with perfect clarity what he would smell. It was a unique combination of scents; the scent of the air on a crisp, cool day on the edge of winter, something a bit like pine trees, and something musky that was uniquely Potter. Draco felt like kicking the stupid potion for giving him Potter in a bottle.

With a sinking feeling of dread he turned back to his own parchment and wrote it down.

“What did you smell?” Potter asked.

“Mangoes,” Draco told him shortly. 

Potter stared at him for a moment. “You did not.”

“And beeswax.”

Potter wrinkled his nose.

“Exactly,” Draco said, “now stop asking me stupid questions.” He wondered if he could somehow capture Ode de Potter and market it to the masses. He’d make a fortune. 

Not that he needed it.

Draco was the first one out of the Potions classroom, but he had to double back because he’d forgotten his quill. Entering the room without making a sound, he came upon Potter and the Weaslette in a lip-locked embrace. Potter was backed up against their usual table, and the youngest Weasley looked like she was attempting to eat his face as she dangled a piece of mistletoe over their heads.

Draco felt as though he had literally been punched in the gut. He must have made some sort of noise because Potter opened his eyes then, and looked over Weasley’s shoulder. His bright green eyes locked with Draco’s silver; they widened in surprise and something that Draco couldn’t read.

Draco attempted to swallow, realized that he felt like he would throw up at any moment, and walked back out of the Potions classsroom without his quill.

&…….&……..&……..&…….&……..&

“Malfoy, would you mind telling me why, in the past 4 weeks, you have not said one word to me?” Potter began, conversationally, just like he did every time he’d run into Draco over the past 4 weeks. The only thing that changed was the running tally of days that Draco had managed not to talk to Harry Potter.

Bane of his existence.

“You’re sulking like a girl,” Potter snapped, waspishly.

Several minutes passed.

“I think you just messed up your hair.” Potter's attempt at being cunning.

Draco gave him a withering look, but took out a mirror just in case.

Potter snorted. “At least I got you to finally look at me.”

Draco didn’t dignify this with an answer and went back to dicing mandrake roots with a precision that would have made Snape weep for joy. He could feel Granger’s eyes on the back of his head and resisted the urge, barely, to give her the finger. She’d helpfully informed him, two weeks ago, that Potter and the youngest Weasley had broken up over the Christmas Holidays.

He’d stared at her like she had three heads. “Why on earth do you think I’d be interested in that, Granger?” He’d asked, with no small amount of scorn in his voice. “Unless you want me to make an announcement to the Prophet? The Ultimate Scoop on Potter's Failed Romances.”

Granger had just sighed gently and then, to Draco’s increasing shock, had given him a quick, hard hug.

He recoiled and checked to make sure she hadn’t gotten any germs on him. He was fairly sure he’d be able to see girl germs. 

“What was that for?” he demanded, holding himself ready to run away should she attempt any more physical displays of affection.

Seriously, where had he gone wrong that Gryffindors and Muggle-borns felt free to violate his personal space?

“I just wanted to thank you. For telling Malcolm Baddock, in no uncertain terms, to never call me a…..a Mudblood ever again.”

Oh, yeah. That.

Draco winced. He really had hoped she’d been gone by that point. He shrugged. “I’m just playing the game, Granger,” he told her now. Must maintain image. “The rules have changed, and Malfoys always adapt.”

She smiled at him then, and she looked almost fond. “For the prince of Slytherin, you’re a terrible liar, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco had sniffed at her. “Empreror, Granger, Emperor. The only one I would compare myself to is Caesar, Julius Caesar.”

And Granger had laughed again.

But all this lovey dovey with everyone’s favorite encyclopedia did not mean that Draco was going to talk to her speccy-eyed best friend. He took his wand and stabbed Potter viciously in the hand with it.

“Ow!”

With several more pokes Draco silently, but emphatically, told Potter that he was an incompetent moron and to move over and let Draco do the work.

He could feel Potter growing angrier and angrier as the two hours dragged slowly on. It had only been their second Double Potions since the beginning of the Term. Obviously the second hour of silence was more than Potter’s small amount of patience could handle. 

As Potter went up to deliver their – obviously perfect – potion to Slughorn, Draco slung his bag around his shoulders and headed out the door. He had moved so fast that even Goyle and Blaise had failed to catch up, but it obviously wasn’t fast enough for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Bloody-Pain-In Draco’s-Side. 

Potter grabbed him by the arm and before Draco could squawk indignantly at this treatment, he’d been hauled down a side corridor and slammed roughly back against the stone wall.

Potter was panting.

Draco cursed every fiber of his being for finding his sweaty brow and blazing eyes the most arousing thing he had ever seen. He wondered if Potter's spikey hair was as soft as it looked. He wondered if Potter's eyes would fall closed and he would lean into Draco's hand if Draco ran his fingers through it.  
“Now,” Potter said, through gritted teeth, “I’ve had enough, Malfoy. You’re going to talk to me, and tell me what the hell this is all about.”

Draco glared back defiantly, not saying a word. He knew that his cold, grey eyes were like shards of ice, and that his face gave nothing away. After a moment Potter began to look uncertain. He took away one hand and ran it awkwardly through his messy hair. His face was so close that Draco just had to lean forwards-

He was pressed back so hard into the stone that his bones were aching, and he kept his hands – and lips – firmly to himself.  
Potter’s green eyes looked suddenly uncertain. “I thought…….I thought we were getting along, Malfoy.” And there was such hesitation and, almost, hope in those words that Draco felt something that was disturbingly reminiscent of compassion.  
Still he didn’t say anything

“I just don’t understand, Malfoy…………Draco.”

His name on Potter’s lips sounded-

Draco wanted-

But no good would come of it. No good at all!

His father would disown him. The entire school would laugh…….actually, no they wouldn’t. Most of them were in Draco’s pocket by now. He was vaguely wondering how much effort it would take to extend his network to take over the Ministry. McGonagall had been watching him suspiciously for days now.

Bit slow on the uptake, that woman.

Snape would have been down on him before he’d even put Pansy Parkinson in her place.

Potter released Draco’s shoulders and took a step back, face crestfallen, and body already turning away. Draco couldn’t allow that. Potter’s attention belonged on him, not the stupid floor. Draco made an indistinguishable sound in his throat, and reached out, wrapping one hand around Potter’s neck.

Draco pulled the obnoxious green-eyed menace towards him, and pressed his lips against the Chosen One’s. Hard. For the merest hint of a breath, nothing happened. Then Potter’s mouth opened hot and wet against Draco’s and his tongue swiped against Draco’s and then Draco was being shoved backwards until he felt stone again and Harry Potter was pressed against him like he didn’t know where he ended and Draco began.

Glorious heat pooled in Draco’s crotch, electricity shot from throughout his entire body, and Potter pressed harder, deepening the kiss, fingers twisting and tightening so hard in Draco’s hair that he gasped in pleasure.  
Draco threaded his fingers through Potter’s belt loops and pulled the boy gently forwards until his achingly hard erection brushed against Potters.

Potter made a sound in his throat that send a wave of pleasure rushing towards Draco’s groin. Draco shivered, dropped his head against Potter’s shoulder, and rocked his hips forwards yet again, needing to feel that again and again and again.  
He wanted Harry Potter. He wanted him right here, right now.

He needed him.

Potter was running his hands up and down Draco’s back, trying to get even closer, when Draco gave a mighty shove and sent the other boy reeling. Potter blinked heavily-lidded dazed green-eyes at Draco as though attempting to make sense of what was happening.

He needed him. He needed Harry Potter. 

Draco Malfoy had never been so terrified in his life. So he did the only sensible thing he could think of. 

He ran away.

&……&…….&…….&…….&……&

Draco Malfoy was a master at the art of deception. He was the prince of Slytherin after all.

Which was why he found it mildly annoying that no matter where he went, he kept having to duck into corners and unused rooms and out windows to avoid Harry Potter.

It was why he was outside, in the pouring rain of mid-February flying like a lunatic on his broom, just to avoid the blood Boy-Who-Lived. It was why he had skipped double-Potions with the prat to do it.

No one ever said Draco Malfoy was mature.

After a while Draco felt eyes on him. Squinting through the driving rain, Draco could just make out Harry Potter standing in the scant shelter of some bare-branched trees at the edge of the Pitch. He had a broom in one hand and a threatening mien that Draco knew meant Potter would follow him around and attempt to tackle him mid-air if Draco didn’t land and talk to him like a normal human being.

Sullenly, Draco complied.

He folded his arms and attempted to stare Potter into submission, but the other boy just looked Draco over before casting an impervious spell, a drying spell, and a warming spell in quick succession. “If you die of pneumonia Malfoy, before I get a chance to kill you, I’m going to be very upset.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. You couldn’t even get close enough to kill me,” Draco snapped, stung.

“I seem to be doing a pretty good job without even trying,” Potter murmured. His eyes were roaming over Draco's face, but his expression was indecipherable.

And then he moved so fast that Draco utterly failed to step out of the way in time. His fingers trailed over Draco’s face, through his hair, over his heart, before coming to grip Draco’s shoulders tight enough to bruise.

“Unhand me, you miscreant,” Draco ordered, but he felt that he lacked his usual commanding presence, and indeed, Potter just raised an eyebrow and his lips quirked.

“There’s nothing wrong with needing………someone…………me,” Potter mumbled again, but his gaze was direct upon Draco’s.

“Maybe I just don’t like you, Potter,” Draco retorted. He was fairly sure that it was Granger, not Potter, who had successfully divined his terror, and he made a mental noted to kill her – slowly – later. 

“Could have fooled me,” Potter said, softly now, watching the expression flit like lightning across Draco’s eyes. “You could have hexed me eight ways from Sunday by now, but you haven’t. And it’s Harry.”

“Harry is a stupid name. Utterly common,” Draco informed him, inanely, distracted as always by Potter’s nearness. By the warmth of his body, and the roughness of his hands, and the bright sparkle in his eyes. Harry Potter almost looked happy.

Draco must have said that last part out loud, because Potter – Harry, said, “I am happy. Or almost happy, if you would just make the least bit of sense. Hermione says that you’ve been in love with me for months now. Most likely years, but you didn’t know it.”

“Granger is an obnoxious know-it-all.”

Harry laughed. “She told me that she suspected I was in love with you for almost the same amount of time.”

Draco froze, but Harry inched forwards, dropped his hands from Draco’s shoulders, and rested his forehead against Draco’s. The icy rain fell all about them, but they were incased in a bubble of magic. It created a dome of silver-white icicles above them, and was stunningly beautiful.

“I’m scared too,” Harry whispered then. He drew back and gazed at Draco questioningly.

This time, when Draco kissed him, it was gentle and slow and promised everything. “I’m going to make your life a living hell, Potter” Draco threatened him when they had pulled back, breathless and bright-eyed and smiling like a bunch of saps. It was even Valentine’s Day, for crying out loud. His Malfoy ancestors were about to rise up and Crucio him. 

But fuck ‘em. They were dead anyway.

“Bring it, Malfoy,” Harry volleyed right back, and he was laughing.

&……&……&…….&…….&……&


End file.
